


The Last Dance

by BritinManor



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Debbie, Anti-Michael, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritinManor/pseuds/BritinManor
Summary: The best night of Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney's life, even if it was ridiculously romantic, was shattered with the crack of a bat. But what will happen to the 'family' when they find out who wielded the bat?STORY IS NOW COMPLETE!





	1. The Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Plot Bunny: By the Queen of Plots - Deb Tanner
> 
> Beta: Thank you to my dear friend Kimberly - Predec2 - I couldn't do it without you!
> 
> Credit for the gorgeous banner goes to the very talented Lacrichan - Estelle, Thank You!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: QAF and its characters are the sole property of Showtime and Cowlip Productions. This work is done purely for entertainment purposes only No copyright infringement is intended.

**MICHAEL:**

"Ma, you have to let go, or I won't have enough breath left to get to the airport!" I manage to squeak out.

"Oh, Baby, I'm just gonna miss you so much! I want you to promise me that you will call every day," Ma says before finally releasing the death grip she has on me.

I nod before turning to the man who has been the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had. I swallow the lump in my throat as I tell him, "Uncle Vic, I'm gonna miss you, too."

"Same here, Michael. Thanks for stopping by on your way to the airport. We're gonna miss you, kiddo. It's not gonna be the same around here without you. But David is your new life now, and I'm happy for you, Son. He's a good man."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I honestly didn't feel like I had much choice in my decision to go to Oregon. After I found out Brian wasn't moving to New York, I wanted to tell David that I had changed my mind and decided not to move out there. But I knew it would bring on a multitude of questions I wouldn't want to answer.

"I know, Uncle Vic. It's just that it's... nerve-wracking; a fear of the unknown, I guess. It's the first time I'll be gone from home. I won't have any friends or family out there and no job lined up."

"Be that as it may, Michael... just think," my mother responds. "You'll be with the man of your dreams! You'll have your very own house with David and Hank; a ready-made family! And I'm sure that soon you will find a job and meet new people."

I inhale before letting out a deep breath. I’m highly skeptical that it will be that easy, but it is better to just go along with it, or some long, drawn-out lecture will ensue. "Sure, Ma. Now, I'd better get going. I just wanted to stop by and say goodbye again. But if I'm going to catch my plane on time, I've got to leave now."

My mother and Vic nod; I see Ma begin to tear up as she briefly pats my cheek. "Call when you get there." I nod and turn toward the door, knowing I’m not doing what I really want to do, but knowing that I cannot back out now. 

When I'm back in my car and on my way to the airport, I keep wondering if I went over to see Brian if he would ask me to stay. Maybe if he sees that I am actually going to leave Pittsburgh, he'll ask me to not go. I just can't help thinking that after sixteen years of friendship we shouldn't be separated, because that thought kills me. Brian is my rock; I need him in my life. Again, I think how I really don't want to go to Oregon, and how I never would have agreed if Brian hadn't told me he was moving to New York. With that thought in mind, I quickly do a U-turn and head back to Brian's. I can tell him I just wanted to say goodbye before I leave and pray that he will ask me to stay.

Driving up to Brian's, I see him ready to enter the jeep. Where would he be going in a tux? He hadn't mentioned anything to me. But I guess that stands to reason if he thought I wasn't going to be here. But a tux? Where would he be going in Pittsburgh in a tux? Even during all those ad agency events, he never wore a tux. Curiosity getting the better of me, I decide to follow him. 

The drive isn't that long, and before I know it, we are driving up to the Priory Hotel. Wow; fancy, schmancy! What in the hell would he be doing at the Priory? As I watch him going into the parking garage, I see a banner hanging on the building. With a closer look I see... oh, hell, no! Fucking Justin's Prom.

What the hell? I immediately start thinking of my failed prom. I so badly wanted to go. I wanted a chance to fit in. I figured if everyone saw me at the Prom, they would realize I was the same as all of them. When I begged Brian to go with me, he actually laughed in my face and told me to get my head out of my ass, saying Prom was a stupid, heterosexual ritual. Why be crammed in a room full of horny straight kids? Besides, he'd already had anybody even remotely good-looking. He told me if we danced together, we'd probably get beaten up and left for dead. So, he told me he'd take me to Babylon instead. At least he'd be able to fuck some hot guy there. Now I'm wondering if Brian had been ridiculing our Prom, or was it the idea of going with _me_? 

I decide to park my car and go in to see if that is really where Brian is going; after all, there are several ballrooms in a hotel, especially one as big as this facility. As I enter the main ballroom, however, I see Brian really IS at the Prom! I move to the side and stand by a large, potted plant, as I don't want to be noticed. Peeking around the side of the plant, I catch sight of Brian again; he's standing there with that fucking kid and his little fag hag, running his finger down the lapel of Justin's tux. _Hmm, I thought that was a move he **only** made when he was picking up his prey in Babylon_. He kisses the girl's cheek and now he's got Boy Wonder's hand... wait... they're actually gonna dance? 

As I see them twirling and gliding around the wooden dance floor, I see a look on Brian's face I have never seen before. He looks so… happy. His smile, _this_ smile, is one I have never seen, and it's for this blond, disposable twink? I didn't even know Brian could dance like this. He's dipping Justin, _dipping! What the hell_? I feel like I'm gonna be sick. I notice that everyone's attention is on them; some with looks of wonder, while some appear disgusted by them. And then at the end, he spins Justin around and _kisses_ him…kisses him passionately, before he lowers Justin to the ground. My mouth falls open in shock as I see the smiles on both their faces, as if they are the only two in the room. That _kiss._ I shake my head in disbelief. No! Brian has never kissed anyone like that! Don't you reserve a kiss like that for someone you love? Oh, God! Could Brian really _love_ Justin? I've waited sixteen years for Brian. Waited for him to even notice me, realize it was _me_ he wanted. _Me_ he loved. And this sniveling, snot-nosed, seventeen-year-old waltzes in and stalks Brian, and Brian is giving him everything I ever wanted? I feel angry and hurt, as bile rises into my throat. I gotta get out of here. I can't see any more of this. 

Just as I reach my car a few minutes later, I hear laughing and singing, which sounds like Brian. I move over between a pickup truck and an SUV and watch as Brian and Justin head towards Brian’s jeep. It IS him, and he's still with that kid! They're laughing and singing and doing something like dancing; now they're kissing at the jeep?! Didn't he already give the kid enough? Wanting to get a closer look, I decide to move out from between the vehicles. Just as I start to walk around the pickup, I see a baseball bat in the bed of the truck. I should just go before I see anything else nauseating... then another glance shows me that Justin is walking back towards the hotel. I close my eyes... my head is buzzing. Through white flashes, I see Brian and Justin. I remember Brian breaking his rule at Babylon and picking Justin up and kissing him. I remember all the times Brian has taken Justin home. Brian's jealousy when Justin won the King of Babylon contest and stole his own trick away from him. I see Brian...dancing, twirling, kissing. White flashes of fury; a voice saying, _we'd probably get beaten up and left for dead._ Not even aware I've moved and before I realize what I'm doing, I raise the bat, ready to strike. I see Justin turn around, a huge, bright smile on his face, and I remember the first time Ma called him Sunshine. My heart pounding with adrenaline, I realize I want the sunshine to go away, so I strike. I watch as Justin seems to fall in slow motion; I drop the bat and start to rush away. 

Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my knee, which causes me to drop to the floor of the garage. I look around and see Brian rushing back to Justin, who's lying several feet away, blood pooling around his head. I hear the word 'no' echoing in my head repeatedly and realize it's not me uttering it out loud, but Brian's agonizing cries repeating the word over and over. Not regarding me, but for HIM.

I noticed how dark the area was as I saw Justin approaching like some lovesick schoolboy, unaware of anyone but Brian. Luckily, the dimly lit garage and burned-out bulb overhead hid me like a shroud and I realize Brian must not have recognized me. And then it hits me: _Oh, God, oh, God, what did I do_? Brian. I have to get away. Brian can't see me. With that thought in mind, I find the strength and sheer willpower to get up, but the pain in my knee is unbearable. I bite down hard on my lip to keep from screaming out. When I finally get to my feet, I feel blood filling my mouth and spit it out quickly, as it's threatening to gag me. Then – half dragging my right leg – I hobble to my car as fast as I can, so I can get the hell out of here. 

As I drive towards the airport, my hands are shaking as I grip the steering wheel contemplating what I did, but I believe Boy Wonder got just what he deserved. Brian did, too. It serves my best friend right. None of this would have ever happened if Brian had spent our prom night together, doing with me what he did with Justin, because then Brian would have realized he was in love with ME, and Justin would have never entered our lives. As I continued driving, the song playing over and over in my head, a small, satisfied smile ghosts across my lips over the irony of it all. Brian’s words to me so long ago had been prophetic:

_If we danced together, we'd probably get beaten up and left for dead._

Justin _did_ indeed save _his_ last dance for Brian.


	2. The Last Dance

_“Attention, passengers on Delta Air Lines Flight 232 to Portland. This is an announcement for passengers on Flight 232 to Portland... The flight has been delayed due to 'mechanical issues.' At this time, we are rerouting passengers to another flight. Please stop at the check-in desk at Gate 26 so the agent may give you a new itinerary for your travel today. We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause."_

**DAVID:**

That's great. I really don't want to have to change our flight, because Michael won't be able to find the right gate to go to. Speaking of which, I wonder where he is? He should have been here by now. Doubts begin to creep into my head as I wonder if he might not be coming at all. Would that surprise me? On one hand, no, but on the other, I guess I was really hoping for a chance for a life together for us, away from Pittsburgh, or more accurately, away from _Brian._ I can't help the contempt I feel just thinking about that arrogant bastard. To get Michael away from him would be...

"David?" I hear, interrupting me from my musings. I heave a sigh of relief and feel vindicated as I whirl around to face my lover. My initial happiness at hearing his voice turns to shock, however, as I observe Michael's disheveled appearance and the fact that he's sitting rather than standing.

"Michael? MICHAEL! What the hell _happened_ _t_ o you? Did you fall or something?" I couldn't think of him getting into a fight, knowing how easygoing he is. But this…this I didn't expect. "Why are you in a wheelchair?" I notice the uniformed man behind him watching our interaction curiously as I tell him, "Here, Sir, I can take it from here. Thank you for helping him." I hurriedly reach into my pocket and take out a ten, pushing it into his hand.

"Happy to be of service," the gray-haired man responds congenially. "When I saw this young man get out of the taxi and then show difficulty supporting himself on that one leg, I grabbed a wheelchair to help him before he could fall. I don't think he would have made it in, otherwise."

I nod with a short smile in return. "Well, I'm grateful you were there. Thanks again." With a tip of his cap, he turns and heads back down the terminal toward the main concourse as I redirect my attention back to the matter at hand. "So, Michael, tell me how you wound up this way?"

I notice his face redden as if he is embarrassed as he exclaims, "Shit, David! Can you believe it? I fell down a flight of stairs at Emmett's apartment complex. I realized I had left something there when I moved out that I really wanted to take with me, so I went over there first. I was in a hurry and didn't watch where I was going. I must have missed a step on the way down." 

I sigh in exasperation. "Well, I hope it was worth it. How bad is the knee? I can see it's already swelling. Are you able to stand on your leg and get on the plane? I can wheel you down the passenger boarding bridge, but I'm afraid you can't take the wheelchair on the actual flight."

His anxious expression relaxes as he nods eagerly. "I'm sure I can make it that far. Are we flying first class? If we are, I won't have to walk that far."

I roll my eyes. "Of course, we are!" I stand there, studying his face closely as I notice something else. "That being said, what happened to your lip? That's swollen, too, and it looks like it's been bleeding." My gaze narrows as I watch Michael avert his eyes before he looks at me again. 

"I fell face down…and…and I think I might have bitten it on impact. Now that you mentioned that, I can feel the swelling," Michael tells me, sticking his tongue out and licking the swollen area.

I sigh heavily at our unexpected, additional inconvenience. "Well, we need to get a move on. Right before you arrived, they announced a reroute because our plane is having some sort of mechanical issue. We need a new itinerary for our flight out." I push him over to the side, out of the way of bustling passengers as I instruct him, "You stay here, and I'll go up to the desk and get our new flight info." He nods as I turn and stride confidently up to the ticketing agent, disregarding a couple of other people who are no doubt grumbling about my pushing ahead in line.

"Excuse me; I had reservations for two on Flight 232 to Portland. There was an announcement a few minutes ago about needing a new itinerary due to the plane having mechanical issues. Would you be able to help me with this?"

The woman's eyes bore politely into mine as she inquires, "Who were the reservations under?"

“David Cameron and Michael Novotny.”

She arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, her lacquered fingernails poised over the computer keyboard. “And you are…”

"I'm sorry, I'm Dr. Cameron. My partner has taken a bit of a tumble and is currently sitting in the wheelchair over there. So, if I could get his flight information, too, that would be most helpful. After all, we are traveling together."

She nods in understanding. "Let me see what I can do for you. Um, well... I have another flight leaving in one hour and twelve minutes. It has two layovers – one in DC and one in Denver. I'm sorry to say that between the two layover times, the total flight will take nine hours to reach your destination. It's the only thing available unless you want to reschedule for a different day."

I comb the fingers of my right hand through my hair in frustration and sigh. "No, I don't want to reschedule, but I want you to know I'm very displeased with this."

"I am sorry, Sir, but there is nothing more I can do. So, do you want this flight? There are only three seats left in first class, so if you are going, you might want to book them right away."

I nod, still perturbed but resigned to our fate. "Yes, book them. How far to the other gate?"

She glances down at the computer monitor. "One moment... It will be departing at Gate 54. You should have plenty of time to get there."

My mouth hangs open in dismay. _Could this get any worse?_ "But, but, that's on the other side of the airport! Not to mention a different concourse."

"It's actually on Level Three. You can take the elevators to that floor. If you need help in locating it, there are maps throughout the airport, or you can ask our representative over there."

I huff in annoyance. "No, I'm perfectly capable of getting there myself. But this is very inconvenient for me, and especially for my partner."

"I understand," she replies, but from her demeanor, I would hardly say she seems all that sympathetic. "Would you like me to reschedule for a different day, sir?"

"NO! Just give me my new tickets." 

As I make my way back to Michael a few minutes later, I can't help but think if I wasn't so anxious to get Michael on the plane and out of Pittsburgh, I would have definitely opted for a different day and a more direct flight. 

"Michael, we have quite the trek to the next gate, so we'd better get moving. Where's your luggage?"

"I already checked it in. All I have is my carry-on," he says, indicating the bag on his lap.

"Let's get going. We have to take the elevators up to Level Three. If I take your bag, are you able to wheel yourself?"

He looks up at me with those big, brown eyes that get to me every time as he replies, "I'm not sure how fast I can go; I've never had to use a wheelchair before."

_Yeah…this is going to be the flight from hell,_ I decide with another sigh as I think of an alternative. "Well, I have both my carry-on and laptop. If you think you can set them on your lap, though, I suppose I can push you."

"That would be better, I think. Thanks," he tells me with a smile.

"Let's go, then. Did you stop and see your mother and uncle as you had planned?" I ask as I begin to wheel him toward the elevator located past the moving sidewalk. 

"Yeah, it was after that I went to Emmett's." He reveals, "He wasn't there, though, so I never did get what I wanted."

"Which was?"

"It's not important now. Do you by any chance have any pain meds on you? My knee is really hurting. Could you also put the leg rest up? I'm wondering if that would help alleviate it somewhat."

Despite my feelings for my partner, I can't help rolling my eyes. Sometimes Michael can be such a baby. "I don't have anything on me. We could stop at one of the shops and see what we can find. They would have bottled water there, too."

"That's good. I was going to stop and pick up some Dramamine, anyway, so I can do that then. I've never flown before, so I want to be prepared just in case." I nod as we reach the elevator and I press the button to enter.

Fifteen minutes later as we are trying to check out at the airport shop, I hear a buzzing again. "Michael, is that your phone?"

"I think so. But I can't get to it with everything on top of me. I'm not worried about it, though. I've already said goodbye to everyone, so it can't be anything important."

"I beg to differ," I point out as I hand the cashier a twenty and indicate with a brush of my hand to keep the change. "That's the third time I've heard it go off," I remind him as we head back out into the concourse. 

"That's okay, they can leave a voicemail. I'll check later."

"If you're sure. What if it's your mother or uncle?"

"David, I've already said goodbye, so will you drop it already?" Michael literally snaps at me, his voice rising. I squelch my surprise, attributing it to the great deal of pain he must be experiencing. 

"Well, here, take these," I tell him as I hand him a Dramamine and a couple of Advil, along with the water. "It's the best I can do. The Advil should help with the inflammation and swelling."

"Ever the doctor, aren't you?" Michael replies as I walk around to face him. He pauses to take a sip of the water to swallow down the medicine before he continues with a half-smile. "Sorry, David. I'm just really in a lot of pain."

I clear my throat as I take the bottle from him and stuff it inside my jacket pocket. "Don't worry about it. Our gate is just up ahead. We can probably board soon, and they should have some ice on the plane. That should help with the knee, too."

When we get to the bottom of the passenger boarding bridge, Michael can't even stand on his leg, so I have him lean into me as much as possible, and with his arm around my shoulders, we make our way inside. Thank heavens for first-class. I'm not sure I could have dragged him along much further, and there isn't much room for the two of us in the aisle. As it is, the flight attendant had to carry our bags.

"I'll sit by the window, so you can stretch your leg out. Hang onto the seat back for a minute so I can get these bags up in the bin, and then I'll slide in first."

I look at the stewardess still standing there, glancing at her name badge as I say, "Kim, could you please bring us some ice in a towel?"

"I'll get right on that, Sir. Is there anything else you need?"

"Is it too early to get a drink? I'd like a double bourbon. Michael, anything for you? You shouldn't have anything alcoholic, though, after taking six Advil and two Dramamine. Why don't you bring him a Diet Pepsi?" I balked a while ago at Michael taking more of his medicine, but the initial dosage hadn't seemed to alleviate his pain enough, so I had reluctantly allowed him to take some more.

After I get everything situated and take the window seat, I try to help ease Michael down into his. I hear him groan in pain before he tells me, "It's not working, David. I can't bend my leg to sit."

I glance down at his knee and see the denim stretched so tightly over his knee, it's no wonder he can't sit.

"Michael, I think we are going to have to cut your pant leg. Your knee definitely needs to get out of the constraints of your jeans."

"You can't cut these! I just bought them, specifically for this trip." I wince at the high-pitched whininess of his voice.

"Okay…well, who were you trying to impress? They look like they're a size too small. No wonder the knee is so confined." For the first time, I study the more upscale appearance of my partner. His jeans do look brand new, and instead of one of his juvenile 'superhero' shirts, he is wearing a stylish sweater that molds firmly against his torso. Definitely not something from the Big Q. 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" He glares back at me, his voice rising in volume and sharpness.

I feel my skin warm in embarrassment as a few of the other first-class passengers peer over at us curiously. "Michael, lower your voice NOW!" I hiss at him. "Try using the rules of decorum when you speak."

"Huh?"

I close my eyes and mentally count to ten. I sometimes wonder just how he was raised. This is not the first time I've had to do this with him. I was hoping that the trip to France would have taught him a little something.

"Sir, here are your beverages, towel, and ice." The flight attendant is clutching a towel already dampened from the ice in one hand, and a small, oval tray with our drinks in the other.

"Thank you," I tell her with a faint smile. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask another favor. Do you have any surgical scissors onboard? My partner's knee has swollen so much so that I'll need to cut open his pant leg to relieve some of the pressure. I'm a doctor," I explain, not bothering to mention that my specialty is chiropractic in nature. As she nods and turns to retrieve what I need, Michael speaks up again.

"Fuck you, David, I told you NO! I am NOT having my jeans cut!" There's that loud, raised voice again. _Why do I even fucking bother?_

"Michael, then sit down and be quiet. Weren't you taught anything growing up? This is NOT how you act on a plane, especially in first class. I was only trying to help with the pressure on your knee. So, you can just sit and suffer."

"I can't, David."

_My God. What IS it with him? My patience has run out and my nerves are frazzled_. "Then cut the jeans, Michael. We can buy another pair once we get to Portland. If you had any common sense, you would have realized that to begin with. Now, for God's sake! Stop with the whining and the loud voice!" 

Kim arrives back with the surgical scissors and I set about slicing Michael's jean leg from the hem up as he glares at me angrily. I come to a halt at the base of the knee. It is so swollen I can hardly force the scissors to move. 

"Michael, find something and bite down on it. This is going to hurt. I can't help the pressure you are going to feel."

Kim hands him the extra towel she was holding, and sure enough, Michael sticks it in his mouth as his eyes widen with fear. Good thing he does, because he starts screaming into it. 

When I get the jeans cut above the knee, I can't help but stare in horror at the sight of it. I've treated many football players with a lot of knee injuries, but I've never seen anything that looks like this. It's very purplish/blue and has a funny shape to it. I don't think it's broken, but it's not lying straight, either.

"Michael, exactly what the hell did you do to your knee?"

He opens his mouth wide enough to tell me with a huff, "I told you, I fell."

I eyed him skeptically. "I don't think you can do that much dam..." My phone suddenly rings, interrupting me as I glance at the Caller ID, and I frown before answering.

"Yes?"

"David, is that you? It's Vic."

"Yes, I saw that. What can I do for you?"

"I've been trying to reach Michael, but he's not answering."

"Yeah, the plane is getting ready to leave. Is there a problem?" I peer down at Michael, who has this odd expression on his face that I can't quite place. 

"Justin was attacked tonight at his Prom in the parking garage. I'm here with Brian at the hospital. He's tried calling Michael, but he's not picking up, and then he remembered he was flying out with you tonight."

My eyes widen in horror and surprise at the news I'm receiving. "My God. Do they know anything yet?"

"Justin's in surgery," he tells me, his voice sounding shaky. "They aren't sure he's going to make it." 

"What exactly happened?"

"Brian had shown up for Justin's prom just as the last dance was playing, and after they finished, he and Justin walked out to Brian's jeep. Some fucking lunatic homophobe came out of the shadows with a baseball bat, hitting Justin in the head. Brian yelled out to warn him, and Justin turned just as the bat came down against the side of his head. Brian ran to try and prevent it, but he was too late. He did manage to pick up the bat and hit the guy in the knee before he rushed back to help Justin, because he figured the guy wouldn't be able to walk, but after he called 911 and the paramedics were taking care of Justin, he looked up and the guy was gone."

"Do they have any idea who it might be?"

"No. All Brian could tell them was that the guy wasn't wearing a tux, so it doesn't sound like it was one of the other students. He didn't get a good look at the guy because it was dark. He was too worried about Justin, and he thought there was no way the guy could get away. But the police just left the hospital and told us they found a small, fresh spot of what looks like blood and saliva they're hoping will lead to the identification of the suspect. They're also dusting the bat for fingerprints. They don't know yet who it belongs to, though."

I glance down at Michael who has his head laid back against the seat with his eyes closed. I wonder if the Dramamine and Advil are taking effect. Then I see his swollen lip, and automatically look down at his knee. "Please keep me advised," I tell Vic. "I'll check my messages as soon as we touch down." 

After receiving reassurance from Michael's uncle that he will, I can't help asking, "Which one is it?"

"Which one is what? You mean which knee?" Vic questions.

"Yes," I confirm, as dread begins to settle in my gut.

"The right one. Why?"

"Just curious," I respond, as I once again look at the horror that is Michael's right knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'd love to know what you think.


	3. The Last Dance

**_You can dance every dance with the guy  
_ ** **_Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight  
_ ** **_You can smile every smile for the man  
_ ** **_Who held your hand neath the pale moonlight  
_ ** **_But don't forget who's takin' you home  
_ ** **_And in whose arms you're gonna be  
_ ** **_So darlin' save the last dance for me_ **

"JUSTIN! No, no, no, no..." His heart pounds like it's going to burst out of his chest as Brian witnesses the horrifying scene before him.

"BRIAN! Come on, Brian, wake up!" I tell him, shaking him roughly. Opening his eyes, Brian lets out a long, shuddery sigh as he realizes where he is before scrubbing his face with his hands. 

"Jesus, Vic! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doze off." Brian glances around their stark surroundings as he slowly gets his bearings. "Is there any news yet? Have you been able to get a hold of Mikey?" 

"Nothing on Sunshine, yet; sorry, Kiddo. But I did speak with David; I caught him just before the plane was getting ready to take off, and I told him what had happened. I'm not sure why I couldn't get that nephew of mine on the phone, but David did ask for an update to be sent to his phone when we know anything, and he said he would check his messages when the plane lands. I'm sure by now he's told Michael, so I imagine he will call then. I'm sorry you're stuck with an old man as your company; I'm sure you'd much rather have Michael here right now."

Brian gives me a half-smile. "Vic, don't be so ridiculous. You chased the she-wolves away earlier. Mikey couldn't have done that. Besides, I'm grateful you're here. You have a calmness about you that Mikey doesn't."

"Yeah, my sister did kind of go off on that cop. And don't even get me started on Jennifer..."

<><><>

**VIC:**

**_Flashback_ **

_"Excuse me, I'm Detective Horvath. Can anyone tell us what happened to Justin Taylor this evening?"_

_"Yeah, some homophobic asshole took a goddamn baseball bat to Sunshine's head! Why aren't you out looking for that would-be killer? And when you find him, lock him up and throw away the key!" Debbie rants._

_"Officer Horvath, did you say? The detective nods. "Well, that man"... Jen sneers, pointing towards Brian, "showed up at my son's prom and got my son attacked!"_

_"Hey, just a goddamn minute here!" Daphne interrupts. "Mrs. Taylor, Brian was only giving your son what he wanted. Justin asked Brian to the prom. Brian didn't just show up! So, lay off him. You've been sitting here muttering for the last half an hour and I, for one, am tired of hearing it!"_

_Jennifer purses her lips tightly together, obviously agitated. "Well, he should have stayed home. No man his age should have been at a high school prom."_

_"Jennifer, that's enough!" I interject loudly, startling both her and Daphne. "You seem to forget that your son wouldn't have even been there tonight if it hadn't been for you. So, don't you go blaming Brian!"_

_"What are you talking about?" Jennifer sputtered. "This is Brian's fault!"_

_"No, it's not. As Daphne said, Justin asked him there. You should be happy Brian thought enough of your son to give him the one thing he wanted. You and my sister were the ones that told him he had to go. He wasn't going to go. Remember the 'rites of passage' talk earlier this week at our house? Justin went to make you happy. So, don't you sit here and blame Brian!"_

_Suddenly a shrill whistle interrupts us. All heads look towards the cop who has his thumb and middle finger in his mouth demanding quiet._

_"All this arguing is getting us nowhere. Now, you…Lady Redhead. Who's Sunshine?"_

_"Sunshine is what I call Justin Taylor. When he smiled..."_

_"You mean 'smiles’, Sis," I chide my sister gently._

_My sister takes a deep breath and nods before continuing. "When Sunshine smiles, the whole room lights up. So, do you have a problem with me calling him Sunshine? Because you if do…well, you can just shove your ass where the sun don't shine." Jennifer gasps and I hold my breath, hoping this guy doesn't haul my outspoken sister down to the pokey for that charming little speech, but to my relief, he simply shakes his head._

_"No, no problem. But I need to know what exactly happened. Can we find that out without everyone arguing?"_

_Daphne speaks up then and relays the details from the prom, and then Brian manages to make it through the events in the garage, breaking down when he is done. It must be enough to change Jennifer Taylor's mind, because she walks over to Brian and gives him a slight hug, reaching up with her thumbs and wiping away the tears that had leaked out of the corner of his eyes._

_About that time, an Officer Barone arrives to advise us about the saliva and blood samples found in the garage._

_"Well, there you have it, Detective! Go find that monster, arrest him, and get the son of a bitch off the streets! We want him crucified! Trying to kill Sunshine...the man doesn't deserve to live!" Deb starts her rant again, her eyes ablaze with fury._

Present Time

"Well, at least Sis has calmed down again. And Jennifer came around. I guess that's something," I tell him, squeezing his shoulder gently.

Brian nods before I give his shoulder one more squeeze before letting go. "Thanks, Vic. I can't thank you enough for being here with me, _for_ me," Brian says, grasping my wrist briefly in gratitude. 

"Excuse me... who's here for Justin Taylor?" We all look up as we hear the solemn voice of the doctor, and the importance of this moment seeps into our beings. I notice Ted and Emmett get up and walk over to Brian, Emmett taking Brian's other hand to offer him support before we hear the outcome of Justin's surgery.

<><><>

_"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be landing..."_

**DAVID:**

My eyes fly open at the announcement. After the boarding from hell, and two double bourbons, I lay back and closed my eyes for the hour flight. We had a last-minute arrival who apparently got the last remaining seat in first class. Unfortunately, it was right across the aisle from Michael, and when the man put his carry-on in the overhead bin, he took a step back and bumped into Michael's knee, causing him to practically jump out of his seat with a very loud, _"You fucking bastard! Watch where you're going!"_ I closed my eyes momentarily, before catching the man's eyes and mouthing my apologies. He nodded at me but didn't offer up an apology to Michael.

Even though they have a wheelchair right by the plane, it's almost impossible to get Michael off the plane. Once he's sitting, I tell him what's going to happen.

"Michael, we have a three-hour layover, and I've decided you are going to see a specialist. There is absolutely no way that I am getting back on a flight with you in this condition until we know what's going on with your knee."

Despite his injury, I can almost envision Michael stamping his foot like a child as he tells me, "I'm not going to some damn doctor. And that's final! _You_ can't tell me what to do!" he snarls in the most belligerent tone I have ever heard, his arms crossed with a pout on his face. _And this man is supposed to be thirty years old?_ I give an involuntary shudder.

"Right now, you are in no condition to argue with me, and I'm through dealing with you acting like a spoiled two-year-old. You are going to a doctor and that's final!" I tell him, already looking for a knee specialist on my phone, hoping against hope we can get in.

I find a Dr. Samuel Cromley and instruct the taxi driver to go to that address. During the forty-five minute drive, I find myself wondering why that name sounds kind of familiar. But it's not until we arrive inside the lobby and a nurse comes out to usher us into his office that I understand why.

"David? I was wondering if that was you. When my nurse said there was a Dr. David Cameron here to see me along with an injured man, I thought to myself, there just can't be two Dr. David Camerons in this world, right?" Sam says to me, getting up and giving me a warm hug.

"Who's this, David?" I can't catch a break from the whining, complaining tone of my lover.

"Sam, it's so nice to see you," I say, returning the hug. "On the way over here from the airport, I was trying to place the name. My, it's been, what? It has to be over twenty years."

“Senior year in college, if I recall right. What are you doing here in DC?”

“I was actually…”

“ _WE_ were actually,” Michael interrupts rudely.

I let out an exasperated sigh before explaining, "We were on our way to Portland, but my flying companion here, Michael Novotny, took a fall down some stairs before boarding. Since we had a three-hour layover, I wanted him seen by someone, so we can know the extent of his injuries; right now, he can hardly move and can't walk."

Sam takes that moment to look down at Michael's knee and gives out a low, prolonged whistle. _Yeah, my sentiments exactly._

"Mr. Novotny?" Sam says, extending his hand, but Michael ignores it, sitting there with his arms crossed. 

"Well, Mr. Novotny, first we are going to get some X-rays in order to determine just what is wrong with your knee. Then we will see where to go from there."

Twenty minutes later, Sam comes back in and points to a chart on the wall. 

"I have to say, Mr. Novotny, I didn’t take you for the sports type."

Michael glares at him. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well, as shown in the diagram, you have a torn MCL, which is a medial collateral ligament tear. The MCL is a thick band of tissue on the inside of your knee; it connects your thighbone to the bone of your lower leg. A tear to the medial collateral ligament can cause severe pain, swelling, and a lack of stability in your knee. It's frequently a severe injury, because it splits the ligament in two. Also, when the MCL tears, it may not hold your knee in place securely. The reason why I mentioned you playing sports is that an MCL injury usually only happens during repeatedly playing contact sports, such as football hits and tackles, which causes it to overstretch and tear.”

"Well, Michael has never played that sport or any other that I'm aware of. Can an injury like this occur from falling down some stairs?" I just have to ask.

"I really can't envision that happening, because to suffer an MCL without playing sports, it would have had to have been hit extremely hard on the outside of the knee. Do you see where Michael's knee is extended too far inward? Your medial collateral ligament's main function is to prevent the leg from doing that, but it also helps keep the knee stable and allows it to rotate. As I said, for this to happen without playing contact sports, it would need to have been a hard, blunt hit to the outside of the knee." 

Michael huffs loudly beside me. "So, what are you trying to say, _Doc_? I _told_ you I fell down some stairs. I probably hit it on a few stairs going down," Michael adds with a sneer.

"Well, Mr. Novotny, since you are so medically textbook smart, would you like to explain how your knee is extended inward from a fall down the stairs? If you want to explain how you really hurt your knee, I will maybe treat it for you. I don't approve of patients lying to me. In the meantime, I will put a brace on it. You will need to keep your leg elevated, and you will definitely need physical therapy. Left untreated, you could possibly need surgery and might possibly never walk right again. You will have trouble doing simple things like walking or dancing for the rest of your life. Now, I do believe I have another patient. Good luck, Mr. Novotny. And be sure to contact your regular physician as soon as possible. David, it was so nice seeing you again. Am I understanding that you finally figured out in life that Lorie wasn't your correct choice?"

"Yes, I did. I have a son now, Hank. He's eleven. Great kid."

A loud snort erupts from Michael. "If you two would quit eye-fucking each other and reliving your past trysts, maybe we can go? We have a plane to catch."

"Yes, yes, you do, Michael," I decide, having heard enough. "Right back to Pittsburgh." I hold my hands up in a warning for him not to speak as I tell him, "I'm not taking you with me. I don't trust you. And I don't want you, your attitude, and your constant whine around my son. So, I will take you back to the airport, buy you a return ticket to Pittsburgh, and hope you have a good life."

"Wh... what are you talking about? You can't leave me! I uprooted my whole damn LIFE for you! I quit my job! What am I supposed to do? I can't walk, for God's sake!"

"Well, I'm not your nurse, and I'm choosing to not take care of you. You can return home. I'm sure Deb would love to take care of her little boy." I can't help smirking as hatred flares in my now former boyfriend's eyes.

"I hate you! I hate everything you stand for!" Michael screams out. I wince at the volume of his voice, convinced everyone on the entire floor must have heard him. 

"Sam, it was so good to... oh, excuse me, I need to check this message." I glance down at the text message displayed on my phone:

_**Vic:** David, Justin came out of surgery just fine. He's even regained consciousness. He appears highly confused, though. He just asked us what Michael was doing at his prom._

"Damn," I murmur to myself. Ignoring a seething Michael, I choose to not even mention to him what’s happening in Pittsburgh. I peer over at my friend and smile. "Sam, I think I'll stay in town for a few days. Are you free for dinner this evening?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any doctors/nurses out there, I tried to get the MCL damage as accurate as possible. Between my son-in-law and google, I hope it all reads correctly.


	4. The Last Dance

**DAVID:**

I sigh, and even to my ears, it's a weary, distraught sound. I am so damn tired of the tirade Michael has been throwing on our return back to the airport. 

"Michael, please, I'm begging you; stop. Just stop. Your voice is starting to cause damage to my eardrums. It's worse than fingernails scratching a fucking blackboard."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Surely you know what a metaphor is, right? 

He looks at me helplessly. "Huh?"

I peer over at him briefly in part disbelief, part disgust before turning back to my driving. "Seriously? Did you graduate? Didn't you ever take any science classes?"

"Just the ones I needed to graduate; why?"

"Didn't you study the amplification of high-frequency noise and the effect it has on your eardrums?"

"How the fuck would I know? Brian did all my homework, because I didn't understand any of it."

"Of course, how foolish of me. Well, here's a newsflash for you: research studies have shown that ear-splitting noises have the same frequency as that of a human scream, and that they can literally cause pain. Which is what the decibel of your voice is doing right now. I'd like to avoid becoming deaf, so please tone it down. 

"Thanks for the endearing words," Michael retorts. "What has gotten into you?" 

I choose to ignore his whining as I head toward the short-term parking lot. I hold up my right hand in an unsuccessful plea for silence, but I know it will be futile as I inform him, "We'll be going into the airport in a minute, and I do _not_ want to hear any more. I'm purchasing your ticket, and then you are on your own."

"How the hell do you expect me to get back to Pittsburgh on my own? Do you know how expensive a same-day ticket must be?"

I silently count to ten before I reply, "Is that all you're concerned about? Well, then your problem is solved; you'll be flying solo, compliments of yours truly. When you get there, call someone or take a cab. MY problem – _you_ – is no longer my concern."

Michael's mouth drops open in disbelief as I bless my stroke of luck when someone backs out of a space near the departure terminal. "How am I supposed to walk to get on and off the plane?" I place the car in park and briefly close my eyes; there's that grumbling and complaining that is driving me insane. _What did I ever see in this man-child?_

"An airline agent will assist you; that's part of their job. I'm not returning to Pittsburgh. Sorry, but not sorry. You got yourself into this mess; you can get yourself out." I release my seatbelt and turn to face him. "Let me ask you something... If you hadn't come with me to Portland after you injured your leg, what would you have done?"

"I never thought about it. Besides, if I hadn't been rushing to get to the airport, I wouldn't have _had_ this accident and ruined my new pair of jeans. Those cost me $80. Cash." He has the gall to hold out his hand expectantly. 

I scoff in disgust. "Over my dead body. On second thought..." I pull out my wallet "... I'll give you the $80 and you can buy your own ticket home. How's that?" 

"What the hell? I can't buy a ticket with that! Geez, how stupid are you?"

I wince at the screeching in his voice. "Extremely, apparently; after all, I took up with you, didn't I? To think I went so far as to ask Brian to back off and give me a chance for a relationship with you. And you know what? He honored my wishes. Then when everything was nice and cozy, you shit on your mother, your uncle, and all of your friends."

Michael's mouth hangs open as he peers at me with that hurt, puppy-dog look that he has mastered so well. "NOW what the hell are you talking about?"

"Senator Baxter's party. I tried to get you to calm down; instead, you went on a temper tantrum. Brian donated a hell of a lot of money for her cause. There was no reason you shouldn't have invited them in the first place."

"Are you crazy? They were an embarrassment! I still can't believe they thought so little of me that they would do that!"

"Seriously? That's rich coming from you! You are the epitome of embarrassing! Now, get out of the car." Opening the door, I slide out from the driver's side and start towards the entrance to the airport, when a loud screeching halts my progress. I let out a heavy sigh and roll my eyes as I reluctantly turn around. "Oh my God; what is it now, Michael?"

"How do you expect me to get in there?"

I shake my head in disgust. Thankfully about that time, a kindly looking, uniformed man in his sixties comes out with a wheelchair and offers to assist Michael out of the car and into the airport. I decide I should probably get his luggage, so I head back to the car.

After we get to the ticketing agent's counter, I determine that I can book him on a return flight that leaves in about forty-five minutes. I discuss seating with the woman at the counter. Holding in my shit-eating grin, I turn to find a sullen Michael, still sitting in the wheelchair near a row of chairs. I make my way over to him.

"Here you go, Michael," I say as I hand him his ticket. "I've checked in all your luggage, so that's taken care of. It should make easier boarding and disembarking from the plane."

"You are seriously going to leave me to do this by myself?!" he screeches. People nearby turn to stare and ogle at a supposedly grownup male having yet another meltdown.

I tune his latest tirade out as I inform him, "Now, I got you a seat by the washroom in order to make it easier for you, just in case."

"Well, at least you did _something_ right!"

"Yes, Michael, I did. And just before I would have made the biggest damn mistake in my life." I smile at him and pat him on the shoulder as I tell him, "Have a safe flight home, and good luck... I think you're going to need it."

"Meaning?"

I can't help smirking. "Just a figure of speech. Goodbye, Michael." I add quietly as I turn to go; after all, what is there left to say? _Have a nice life? I'll miss you?_ No way. I only get about ten feet away, though, when I hear him again.

"David, hey, DAAAVVVIIID! Where's my pills?"

I turn around and smile. For just a brief moment, I regret that Michael will no doubt put all the service crew through hell on the way home, but this childish, selfish man is no longer my concern or responsibility. "I put them in your carry-on." And with that, I quickly disappear in the rush of people and head as fast as I can back to my car – and back to my own life. 

<><><>

**MICHAEL:**

_At least he left me my pills._ As I look around for my carry-on, I ask the guy still standing by my wheelchair if he could find me some water, when suddenly David's parting words sink in. Rage builds up in me like a volcano until I couldn't keep my fury in any longer.

"YOU GODDAMN, MOTHERFUCKING, FUCKING ASSHOLE! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"

A security agent comes running over at my declaration; I should have known saying something like that wasn't smart after 9-11, but the words were out of my mouth before I could consider the consequences. "Excuse me," he says as he towers over me, his badge shining as the bright sunlight bounces off of it, causing me to squint to see him clearly. "Would you care to explain that statement you just made? And in a normal speaking voice, not shouting." 

"My asshole boyfriend checked in my carry-on bag with my medication in it, and I need them!" Despite the guard's admonishment, my voice rises as I speak; I’m convinced David did that deliberately to make my miserable life even more so.

"Sir, if you can't lower your voice and calm down, I will not permit you to go through security or board the plane. Do you understand?" His tone of voice leaves no doubt that he will carry out his warning as I sigh heavily in defeat. 

"Yeah, yeah; fine. Just dandy," I can't help adding sarcastically. "But I'll need someone to help me get to the gate."

"I can take you down the ramp to board at the gate, but that's as far as I can go," the older man next to the wheelchair tells me.

I cross my arms over my chest and fume. "Fine. I'll just have to make do, then, won't I?"

The plane winds up being late, and then it turns out that the son-of-a-bitch didn't purchase my ticket in first class near the bathroom; instead, he bought me a ticket in economy. 18B. As I slowly make my way back, stopping at every seat to lean back and catch my breath, it takes longer than the allotted time, and I can hear the passengers behind me cursing under their breath due to my lack of speed. Just as I collapse in my seat, the door to the bathroom opens behind me and someone comes out, bumping my knee in the process. After a string of expletives, I'm advised by a mean-looking male flight attendant to sit down and be quiet, or they will contact the FAA.

I glare up at him. "What the hell is the FAA?"

He starts walking away before stopping to turn around and say, "Really? It's the Federal Aviation Administration. Keep up with the disruptiveness and you'll find out exactly what they can do, including removing you from this plane."

The flight attendant gives one final, piercing glare before he turns to assist another passenger. Defeated, I lie back and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my knee.

Ten minutes later, the same passenger that went into the bathroom earlier is going back in. When he opens the door to come out... I decide to be proactive, letting out a screech before he has a chance to bump my knee.

"What the hell! You were just in there! Can't you fucking hold it?"

"Excuse me? That's none of your damn business, you moron!"

"Just be fucking careful when you go in and out! I damaged my knee, in case you hadn't noticed!"

He glares down at me and snorts. "Well, take it out of the aisle, and it won't get hit."

"Duh! I would if I could, but I can't bend it to get it behind the seat. Besides, it's not my fault some asshole decided to..." I trail off, realizing I had almost said aloud what had really happened in that parking garage. 

Forty minutes later, after a steady stream of people have come and gone to the bathroom, my knee is worse than ever, having been bumped more times than I can count. I overheard one of the other passengers mention that someone had paid for unlimited drinks for everyone onboard, and I can't help but wonder who would do that. As I lay my head back once again to try to relax, I practically shoot out of my chair when I realize who the generous benefactor had been... 

"THAT GODDAMN, FUCKING, SON-OF-A BITCH ASSHOLE! DAVID DID THIS!" 

A few seconds later, seemingly out of nowhere, the same flight attendant as before is standing right in front of me in the aisle. This time, however, a man dressed in a co-pilot's uniform is standing beside him, and he does all the talking. "That was your last warning, sir. We'll be contacting the FAA about having an unruly passenger on-board. What they decide to do with you will be their business. For now, however, you need to come with me." 

"Where? I can't walk!" 

"I'll assist you," the man says, leaving no doubt about whether or not I have a choice. As I unbuckle my seatbelt and stiffly rise to my feet with the taller man's aid, I feel my face flush with embarrassment and anger as everyone around me breaks out into applause.

Several painful minutes later, I find myself sitting in the galley across from the lavatory where one of the flight attendants normally sits, like some child in school who had been sent to the corner for their punishment. I feel furious, humiliated, and bewildered as I ponder David's behavior since we left Pittsburgh.

He had begged me to move to Portland, and just like that, he does a 360 on me. What would I have done if I couldn't have left right away? What am I going to do when I get back home? What am I gonna tell Ma, Uncle Vic, and the guys? Will they buy the story of my falling? Maybe I can tell them I fell at the airport. I can tell them I was in a hurry, so I tried climbing the escalator and got caught, and fell down those steps. _Yeah, that sounds good._ It's better than the steps at Emmett's; besides, Emmett might want to know why I was going to his apartment since I don't have anything left there.

I hear the captain over the loudspeaker announcing our imminent landing. As embarrassing as it was being escorted to the front of the plane – out of sight of the other passengers – at least I assume they will allow me to get off before the other passengers do. _Get off._ Despite my pain, I had to smile at the double entendre.

"Something funny, sir?" the same flight attendant as before says with a sneer in his voice. He seems to have enjoyed all the pain that has been inflicted upon me. He's sitting directly across from me in preparation for our landing; the others are at the back of the plane. 

"No, nothing. I'm assuming I'll be the first passenger off the plane?"

"Yeah well, we didn't have much choice. The FAA wants to talk to you, and we radioed ahead for an ambulance. The airline is not responsible for transporting you."

"Ambulance?" I hear the squeak in my voice, but I ignore it. "I don't want any ambulance! Once I get off the plane, I'll be fine."

"Can't do that, Sir. The gate agent when you boarded indicated you would need an ambulance upon arrival due to your condition." The attendant smirks before he adds, "And I must say, after your horrendous display of profanity and hostility during this flight, you might need to undergo a psychiatric evaluation as well." 

My face turns red with fury as I sputter at this man's audacity. _Psychiatric evaluation?_ "You homophobic, arrogant…" The rest of my words are suddenly drowned out by the loudspeaker as the co-pilot from before announces there will be a delay disembarking due to 'an injured passenger' needing priority assistance first.

There are boos and some people are shouting about how the fucking idiot ruined their flight. I figure I may just as well get the last word in as the door swings open and two gate agents walk in to lift me to my feet. I turn to face the glowering expressions of everyone impatiently standing with their carry-ons and shout, "SHUT THE HELL UP! I'M SICK OF ALL OF YOU INCONSIDERATE ASSHOLES! JUST GO TO HELL!"

<><><>

**PAUL SHEFFIELD - ORTHOPEDIC SURGEON**

I just arrived in the ER having been notified they needed me for a consult on an incoming patient. 

"Dr. Ross, what do you have?"

"Medical Records sent these X-rays down," he tells me as he hands me a rather large packet. "They received them via email from some doctor in DC. The patient should be arriving shortly. Apparently, the memo attached stated the patient will need an orthopedist and probably require arthroscopic surgery. Since you were already in the hospital, I wanted to confer with you before you left."

I nod as I slide open the packet to examine the documents and X-rays. "The patient's name is... Michael Novotny?"

"Yes, the nurse just informed me seconds before you arrived down here that the ambulance picked the patient up at the airport. ETA should be at any moment now."

I huff. "This better be as serious as this document says it is..." I stop, as a loud voice assails my ears. "Good Lord! What is going on? Doesn't that person realize this is a hospital?" The voice becomes instantly louder as the emergency doors burst open and two paramedics come in, rolling a gurney with a male sitting upright on the mat, one leg braced with straps to stabilize it. Despite his injury, it's quite obvious that his vocal cords are working just fine.

"GET ME A FUCKING DOCTOR! SOMEBODY GIVE ME SOME PAIN PILLS! SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING! ISN'T THIS A HOSPITAL? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M DYING HERE?" I wave the paramedics into the next available ER room. 

"Mr. Novotny, I presume? First, I need you to tone it down; this is a hospital, and we can't have you upsetting our sick patients. It _is_ Novotny, right?"

"Yes, yes! Can't you get me something for the pain? Pills, morphine, something? It's been hours since I've had anything."

“I can't give you anything for pain until you have been thoroughly checked out. By the way, what medication did you take, and how long ago was it?"

“I'm not sure how long ago; it was before we boarded the plane. I took five Advil and two Dramamine."

"Mr. Novotny, you... you know, I'm not going to give you a lecture regarding the usage of medication right now. But that amount of medication was excessive, and could have had serious ramifications, especially at a high altitude. But never mind that. I was just looking at the X-rays and the memo we received from Dr. Samuel Cromley in DC and it appears as if you have a severely torn MCL, which Dr. Comley feels will need arthroscopic surgery."

“Who the hell does that doctor think he is? I didn't tell him he could send my X-rays or put his stupid two cents’ worth in! I'M GONNA SUE HIM!" 

"Calm down, Mr. Novotny; that would be pretty hard to do, as we have a copy with your signature authorizing the doctor to pass along this information." I cast a skeptical look at the patient before continuing. "It does surprise me, though, as you certainly don't look like the sports type to me. Looking at the X-rays, I can tell you are going to need emergency surgery. You've really taken a bad hit to your knee."

“What the hell? Why does everyone keep saying that? I DON'T PLAY SPORTS! I FELL, DAMMIT!”

“As I said, the X-rays confirm a severely torn MCL, which suggests the knee suffered blunt-force trauma. We need to get you up to the OR, STAT.” 

As the extra hospital personnel that Dr. Ross contacted comes into the room, I ask my patient, “Out of curiosity, Mr. Novotny, how come you returned here instead of remaining in DC? You shouldn't have been walking on it. You've probably caused more damage than what was originally there. But hopefully, we can get it fixed it up, so you can at least walk without a limp.” 

"It wasn't my choice. I was told I was going home, and then rudely dumped on a plane, not that it's any of your business!"

I shake my head and sigh; this patient certainly doesn't evoke sympathy at all. "Get him prepped," I curtly tell the nurse in the room, who nods. "I'll follow you up.” I start to exit Novotny's room as two orderlies come in to take the patient up to the orthopedic surgery floor. At least the next time I see him, he will hopefully be under anesthesia and unable to scream his head off. 

When the elevator doors open on the surgical floor a few minutes later, three people move out of the orderlies' way as they bring the patient out. We barely get off the elevator when a flame-haired woman screeches, "Michael? MICHAEL?! Oh, my poor baby! What happened?!” 

"Ma? MA?! Uncle Vic! BRIAN! Oh, my God, I'm so glad you were able to get here! I asked them in the ambulance to contact you, but I didn't think they would. I can't believe you all showed up to be with me!"

The red-headed woman – apparently this man's mother – frowns in confusion as she continues to wail, her hand now clutching the side railing of the gurney. "Michael, baby, your knee looks terrible! What _happened_ to you? Where's David?" The decibel of the redhead's voice is rising steadily as I realize like mother, like son. 

"Ma, I hurt so much! My knee is fucking killing me!" I notice that Novotny doesn't give her a direct answer to her question, and by the shocked looks on all three faces, I don't think any of them were aware he was coming in. I feel like I need to get the situation under control, anyway, as hovering loved ones always make every situation more difficult.

"I'm asking again, what the fuck happened? I'm his mother and I demand to know!" I swallow my surprise at the language this woman is using; now I know where the son must have gotten his vocabulary from, too.

“I can't disclose that inform…”

“Oh, for fuck's sake! She's my ma; don't you dare be rude to her. You can talk to her!"

I close my eyes and silently count to ten, while praying for strength. "Room 10," I tell the orderlies, noticing that it's the closest available room near the OR. I wait until my patient is inside with his mother and the others standing nearby, before I begin to explain about his injuries. 

“Your son suffered blunt-force trauma…” I begin as I briefly review the emailed report I received from the DC doctor. “It says here that he sustained his injury at a friend's house – someone named Emmett – before leaving for the airport in Pittsburgh...” 

“No, he's got it all wrong! Ma, I fell down the escalator at the airport! Then David sent me back. The trip was awful! I'm in so much pain. Help me, Ma! Make it better. Brian,” I see him reach out for a man's hand, "wait here for me, and be here when I get back. I still can't believe you all showed up here! I would have thought the ambulance or airline wouldn't have cared enough to do that!"

“...as I was saying, your son suffered a hit to the knee; whether by blunt force or _falling_ , he has a severely injured MCL, the medial collateral ligament.” 

"Oh, Michael! That sounds horrid! How could you do that much damage from falling?” His ma croaks out, tears running down her face. She's so close to hyperventilating, for a moment I'm tempted to check her vital signs. 

I see more people milling around Novotny's door, looking worried and anxious. I wonder if they are friends or family. 

My patient glances up as he notices them, too. “WAIT! How come Ted and Emmett are here? I didn't tell them to call anyone but you.” For the first time, I see him scrutinize the drawn look on his friend's face as he asks in concern, “Is something wrong with Gus?”

I see the tall, dark-haired man squeeze his hand, reassuring him as he shakes his head. “No, nothing's wrong with Gus, Mikey. But we didn't come on account of what happened to you; we were already here. There was an incident - an attack. Justin was... fuck it.” I notice the man named Brian briefly closes his eyes before he seems to come to a decision. "Never mind. He's going to be fine. We can talk about it later. For now, you just worry about coming out of surgery and getting better."

“What do you mean, 'he's going to be fine'?! That can't be right!" Michael blurts out as I'm the one who's confused now. I have no idea what any of them are talking about, but it's the end of my shift, and the sooner I get this guy fixed up, the quicker I can finally leave and get some much-needed shut-eye. 

“Yes, well, if you will all excuse me, I need to get ready for the surgery. And your son needs to be prepped, ma'am, which requires privacy and IV insertion. Please head down the hallway to the surgery waiting room, and we'll let you know how he is as soon as the surgery is over. Nurse, please see to it,” I tell the RN on duty, who nods. I know this no-nonsense woman enough to trust her to carry out my instructions. I then head toward the door before anything more is said, unable to stand any more of the circus currently transpiring.

As I start to walk away toward the OR, however, I overhear a strangled gasp behind me. Fearing the worst, I turn around and hear the soft-spoken voice of the older gentleman who had been in the room with everyone else; he was now stopped in his tracks on his way to the surgery waiting room as he stands next to the man named Brian. "Brian? Brian! What's wrong? You look sick. Are you okay?” My eyes focus on the dark-haired, handsome man I had observed speaking to the patient before who did, indeed, suddenly look pale. His face abruptly darkens with what appears to be anger; however, when he answers the older man presently gripping his wrist, his voice betrays his horror over something. 

"Holy shit, Vic! I don't want to believe it, but it all makes sense… the doc said ‘blunt force trauma’… Michael’s story keeps changing. He can't even keep his lies straight!”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Justin wasn't confused; he was right. Michael WAS at the prom. That son-of-a-bitch! Michael was the one who bashed Justin, and Michael is the one I hit in the right knee with the bat. GET THE POLICE HERE - NOW!


	5. The Last Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Dear Readers: Please note that a new tag has been added. I know how some really despise this, but I really had no idea how I would end up writing Debbie’s character. Thus, a very Anti-Debbie tag has been attached. I am truly sorry if you don’t like reading her written this way, so please accept my apologies.

_“Justin wasn't confused; he was right. Michael WAS at the prom. That son-of-a-bitch! Michael was the one who bashed Justin, and Michael is the one I hit in the right knee with the bat. GET THE POLICE HERE - NOW!_

** <><><>  
**

“You asshole! What the hell do you think you're saying? Are you insane? Sunshine's bashing must have warped your brain!” Debbie's shrieking can probably be heard throughout the whole hospital. “You're fucking out of your mind! My son would never do…”

“Debbie…” Vic starts, but he's instantly cut off by his sister's continuing tirade.

“Don't 'Debbie' me, Brother Dear! Don't you dare tell me you _believe_ this nonsense? My Michael is a good, honest, decent man, unlike _some_ people I know,” she adds, glaring directly at me, indignant fury clearly written all over her face.

About that time, security comes rushing up. When one of them goes to grasp her arm to try to get her attention, she whirls around and slaps the uniformed man hard across the face. While all of us stand there in shock, she has already moved around him and is heading in my direction. 

The security man comes out of his daze and roughly grabs her – halting her in her steps – but she notches up the volume of her accusations and threats. 

Apparently, though, someone has called the police, because two officers are already running towards us; the portly gentleman from earlier, not quite as fast.

“Does someone want to tell us what is going on?” one of the officers demands, breathing heavily from exertion, making me assume they ran up the stairs in their haste to get here.

“Damn right I will!” Debbie replies, her eyes flashing. “This good-for-nothing asshole just accused MY son of bashing Sunshine!”

The man's brows rise. “Sunshine?” 

I sigh. “Justin Taylor. He was hit in the head by a damn bat – and HER SON did it!” I add, my disdain unabated as I stare back at her defiantly. 

“He's fucking lying!” Deb screeches. 

“Ma'am, keep your voice down; one person at a time,” the officer admonishes her sternly, miraculously shutting her up, at least temporarily. But I knew it wouldn't last for long. “How do you know that? Sir, do you have any proof?” By now the other officer from earlier has caught up to our little group and taken over the questioning.

“No, he doesn't have any proof! Michael comes in for emergency surgery on his knee, and this asshole thinks that means my son is some crazed psychopath!”

“You're blind! I've got all the proof I need…” is all I can spit out before she struggles to unsuccessfully wrench herself from the guard.

The detective takes out his handcuffs, and Debbie starts screeching again. “That's right, Officer! Arrest him! I'm filing charges against him for defamation of character! How dare he talk about my Michael that way!” She looks at me in horror. “He's your _best friend_ _!_ ” 

“Not anymore,” I tell her firmly. I feel angry, but also sad. Truth be told, Michael hasn't been my best friend for some time now; that’s Justin. 

The officer remains calm but determined as he explains, “Ma'am, I took these out for you. Do I need to put them on you, or are you going to sit down and BE QUIET, so I can find out what exactly is going on?”

Debbie continues to try and break free of the man's hold, but she is no match for him. “No, I won't be quiet! He has no right…”

“Officer Harris. A little assistance, please? Take Ms...?”

 _“Mrs._ Novotny, and what the hell are you doing?”

“I'm going to have Officer Harris take you down to the station. This is a hospital... the surgical unit, no less. It requires a quiet environment, and you're volatile and out-of-control. Since you obviously aren't willing to comply with my instructions, I have no alternative but to have you taken down to the station until we determine precisely what is going on.” 

During the detective's little spiel, Officer Harris has handcuffed a screeching Deb, who's threatening to sue all of them. I take a quick glance at Ted and Emmett, who are standing stock still and apparently in shock over the whole display. I then notice Vic, who has sunk into a chair, with Jennifer on one side and Daphne on his other, holding his hands and whispering to him. This whole thing must be taking a toll on him; he looks pale.

“Like hell, I'm going anyplace with any of you! My Michael is in surgery and I intend to be here when he gets out. Take your hands off me, mother fucker!” The entire scene is surreal; everyone within earshot of her tirade has turned to stare over at this unexpected outburst of profanity and fury.

Officer Harris and a security guard start hauling Deb away while Harris recites the Miranda Rights to her. With the way she's struggling, it's a good thing the security guard is a big man. He must have three inches on me, and seventy pounds. Finally, they round a corner and her loud screeching slowly dies away. I sigh and turn to look at the remaining officer standing close to me.

“Now, I'm Detective Horvath. Can someone _please_ explain to me what is going on?" he says, as he takes his notebook and pen from his pocket.

I figure since I made the assumption and accusation, I should be the one to start. “Remember earlier when we spoke with you and reported the bashing?” He nods at me, his pen poised over the small notebook. 

“Well, a short while ago, Debbie's son was brought in with a severe MCL tear. He claimed that he fell, but his story changed as to where exactly he fell. The doctor stated since he doesn't play sports, he would have had to suffer blunt force trauma to the knee. Coincidently, it's the right knee, the same place I hit the attacker when I picked up the bat in the parking garage.”

Horvath nods. “I'm knowledgeable about MCL tears, and the trauma connected to them. My son suffered one in high school playing hockey. But right now, this is all just speculation?” he questions.

I briefly close my eyes. How can I explain Michael to him? Michael has always done things; things others would probably find hard to believe. Nobody plays the dewy-eyed innocent better than Michael. I attempt to explain one more time.

“Michael left town tonight with his boyfriend, who apparently put two and two together and sent his lying ass back to the Pitts. He had taken him to a doctor in DC, who sent Michael's X-rays here, and then the guy turned around and sent Michael back home.” I continue until I get the entire story out, ending with his most telling ' _that can't be right'_ comment, and even though at this point it is speculation, I assure the detective that's what I believe happened.

“Do you have a contact number for this boyfriend and the consulting doctor?”

“As far as the doctor, the hospital should have that information. As for David…” I trail off, looking at the others. Vic speaks up then. 

“I have David's number. He contacted me earlier asking how Justin was.” 

“If I could get that, I'd appreciate it,” Horvath says at the same time Vic holds out his cell phone. “We also have the spit and blood sample, so we can cross-check that. That should verify it one way or the other. I'll leave word with the hospital to call me as soon as Mr. Novotny is out of surgery. For now, I'm going to head back to the station and call DC and see what I can find out. Any word on the victim's condition?”

A huge sigh from Jennifer has the detective looking in her direction. “Yes, my son came out of surgery. He spoke briefly, then went right back to sleep. The doctor feels he will recover, but as for any lingering disabilities, we'll have to wait and see. They have a nurse with him that is supposed to come and get us if he should wake up. I'm heading back in there now, though.” She pauses briefly before adding with a half-smile, “Thank you for asking, Detective.”

“Your welcome, ma'am. I wish him well. I'll be in touch.” And with that, he turns and heads towards the elevators.

We all stand there for a second, absorbing everything that has happened this last hour. I rake my hand down my face. I am so mentally exhausted. I don't know how much more I can take. _What was Michael thinking?_ Well, I just can't focus on that right now. I need to get in there and see Justin. I need to make sure he’s okay. That's all that matters right now.

“Well, everyone,” Emmett speaks, finally deciding to join the conversation. “This has been a night from hell. Brian, Sweetie, give me your keys. I'm going to the loft and getting you some fresh clothes. You need to get out of that stuff. I'll also bring back some fresh coffee. Does anyone want something to eat?”

Murmurs of 'no' echo around the room. Jennifer has already left in the direction of Justin's room. As I go to hand my keys to Emmett, reality kicks in. 

“Fuck. My jeep is still in the parking garage of…”

“The Priory,” Daphne helpfully adds.

“Teddy, can you give me a ride? Vic, do you want to go home and lie down, or stay here? Do you have your meds?” Em has apparently nominated himself to get things done.

“I should really go home, but if Sis shows up…”

“Vic, stop at the house and get your meds and a change of clothes and stay at the loft. If you want anything to eat, you should probably grab that, too. I'll be here all night, so you won't be bothered.”

“Brian, I really can't…” Vic starts to protest.

“Oh, yes, you can,” Emmett insists. “Now, come on. You're coming with Teddy and me. Let's go.” He looped arms with Vic and the three started off down the hallway before the older man could reconsider.

Daphne turns to face me with a heated, dark look. “He might be your best friend, Brian, but if Michael was the one that took that baseball bat to MY best friend…”

I held up my hands. “Say no more. I agree with you 100%. You up to seeing Justin, or are you heading home, too?”

“I'm definitely staying. I have to talk to him and make sure he's okay. Are you going in, or staying out here?”

“Fuck, no; I'm coming in. I'd rather wait until Jennifer leaves, as I don't want any other confrontations tonight, but I suppose that's not going to happen, either.”

“Come on, big guy. I'll protect you.” Daphne gives me a lopsided grin, and I can't help but think of the difference between the friendship that she has with Justin and the one I had with Michael. He was always causing trouble, egging the jocks on, until I had to step in, and ended up getting more bruises on top of the ones Jack rained on me. I shake my head to erase those dark thoughts; I need to be here for Justin. He's all that matters right now. 

“Lead the way, darling. I'm right behind you,” I tease, causing the tension to ease a bit.

“Nah, come on,” she replies grabbing my hand. So, I'm forced by this pint-sized girl to walk down the corridor while holding her hand. It’s a good thing there’s no one here that I know, who will witness me being manhandled by her.

<><><>

Justin finally woke up a few hours later. Emmett had come and gone, so I was cleaned up and in fresh clothes. We had some tense moments to start with, when Jennifer thought it would be best if I went home and she sat with her 'baby boy.' Daphne started to say something, but I chose to set her straight.

“Actually, Jennifer, you have no right to be here.” I hold my hand up to stop her protest before continuing. “I gave the hospital your name, since I felt you'd want to know, but I was under no obligation to do so. After Craig refused to pay for Justin's college tuition, and with advice from my attorney, Justin filed papers to be emancipated; otherwise, he wouldn't qualify for any student aid. He didn't want to go to Dartmouth. He's an artist, Jennifer. His talent already surpasses some of the artists at Ryder's. I wasn't going to let him give up on his dreams. I offered him the money, but he didn't want to take it. He finally agreed to accept a loan over and above what the financial aid would cover. Me? I could care less if he ever pays it back, but he insisted a contract be drawn up. Also, even though he's not aware of it, he does have medical coverage, which I pay the premium on. I felt that was a necessity after you and Craig dropped him off of yours. So, if you want to stay, fine, but no more talk about who's staying or who's leaving, unless of course, you feel the need to get home.”

Daphne had once again grabbed my hand in silent support during my 'talk' with Jennifer. It was nice... comforting, which I desperately needed at this time. Jennifer didn't say anything, but finally gave a slight nod, acknowledging that she heard and understood. I caught the unshed tears in her eyes, and momentarily felt bad for being abrupt and bordering on rude, but my nerves were frazzled, too.

We all sat in silence until I saw a flicker of movement on Justin's face. I voiced my joy, the other two looking at me questioningly, until I told them to watch. We sat for another fifteen minutes until he opened those baby blues, blinking a few times, before groaning and saying one word, “Pain.”

Daphne laid on the call button, and when the nurse came in, we told her to get Justin something, reminding her it couldn't have any Tylenol in it. She said the doctor had already gone over his list of allergies and approved what he could have, but she would leave an EpiPen just in case. 

We dimmed the lights, and all grabbed a hand or arm, waiting for the medication to take hold. When he slowly opened his eyes a few minutes later, he looked at all of us, settling on Daphne, then me, then back to Daphne, saying, “Did you just leave the prom?” Then he glanced at me, saying, “You should have come, Brian. You could have recaptured your youth.”

<><><>

The next afternoon finds me visiting my _best friend_. Yeah, right. Cold-blooded killer is more like it. Detective Horvath had come and gone, and after everything - all the implications and facts - had sunk in, I decided to go have a little chat with Michael. Upon my request, Michael had not yet been told the results of the DNA testing, or even their suspicions. Deb is still sitting in a jail cell, awaiting a court appearance for disturbing the peace and her inability to listen and obey a police officer. If I had to guess, I’d think it was a ploy to keep her away from the hospital; hopefully, it will also make her realize that she can't go off on people the way she did and refuse to listen to a police officer. But knowing Debbie the way I do, and unfortunately, regrettably too well sometimes, I doubt this will stop her the next time things aren't the way she seems to think they should be.

When I get to Michael's room, there is a uniformed guard at his door. Apparently, Horvath must have told him I was coming to see Michael, as he crooks his eyebrow, saying, “Kinney?” and with my nod, he just tilts his head for me to go in.

Michael is sitting up in bed, and upon seeing me enter, he lights right up, smiling widely and holding out his arms. If the fucker thinks I'm getting anywhere near him, he's nuts. 

Glancing down at his leg, about all I can think of to say is, “Your knee looks like shit.” And it really does look painful. Funny, I feel no sympathy towards him. 

“Oh, Brian. You have NO idea! And these fucking doctors are so stingy with the pain meds.” He sighs, still holding his hands out toward me. “Can I get a hug? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever.”

“Come now, Mikey. I just saw you last night before you went into surgery. I held your hand and gave it a firm squeeze.” I feign concern as I ask, “I didn't hurt you, did I?” 

“Of course not. It's just that a hug or a kiss hello would be nice.” He’s still holding out his arms expectedly like some frozen statue. 

I shake my head as I brace myself against the door frame. “No can do. Don't want to get too close and accidentally bump your knee. You should be more careful getting out of cars, so you don't trip stepping up on the sidewalk. Look at the damage you did to your knee.”

“Huh?" He gives me kind of a strange look, and I can almost see the wheels spinning. Probably wondering if that's what he told us last night. Then he says, “Oh, yeah. David parked way too close. I couldn't even step out of the car. It was awful, Brian! I have never been in so much pain! Then there were all these rude people on the plane. Horrid, absolutely horrid!” He hesitates for a second before continuing. “Uh, Brian, can I stay with you after I get out of the hospital? I could never make it up all those steps at Emmett's, and I can't stay at Ma's for the same reason. Your loft is the only place acceptable. Besides, you're my best friend. You owe me.”

My eyebrow arches in disbelief. “Excuse me? Owe you? Owe you for being my friend? Since when did _friendship_ come with a price tag?”

Michael finally lowers his arms, dropping them by his sides on the bed as he replies, “Come on, Brian. I didn't mean it that way.”

“Well, I'd really like it explained to me, because you distinctly said... 'owe me'.”

He frowns at me, not quite sure what to make of my reaction. “Why are you acting like this? I'm injured! It was a slip of the tongue! Hey, do you know where Ma or Uncle Vic is? Maybe Ted or Emmett? Nobody has come to see me today. I thought for sure Ma would be here, driving me crazy already. I asked for a phone earlier, too, and they wouldn't bring me one. Maybe I can use yours. I can call the diner and see if Ma's there.”

“Well, you know Deb. I'm sure she'd be here if she could be. I'm sure she's holed up somewhere. She'll probably be along shortly. And, I can't let you use my phone. No cell phone usage in a hospital. Hospital policy.”

He lets out a long breath, disappointed. “So, um…”

“Cat got your tongue, Mikey? I see you shaking your head. It's just you and me. _Best friends._ We tell each other everything, right? We don't lie to each other… right?”

Michael huffs. “Brian, you sure are talking strange, even for you. What are you getting at?”

“I'm hoping you will level with me and tell me the _real_ way you damaged your knee.”

“I told you, I fell.” He sounds confused and hesitant, his brow wrinkled in confusion. _Is he really this dense, or just disillusioned?_

“Alright, if you insist. But, it's time for you to level with me. Where did you fall? Should we start with the most recent? Getting out of David's car and tripping, or…” I shake my head in disbelief. “You really are clueless and have a horrible memory, you know that?... Was it then, or did it happen at the airport, while you were trying to walk _up_ the escalator; or was it at Emmett's, when you were racing to leave after you picked something up that you forgot there... only Emmett said you had _nothing_ there. And let's not forget the airport has surveillance systems; if your memory is all fucked up, I'm sure we could get a clear picture from them. What's wrong, Mikey? You're looking a little ill. Now, should we go back a little further than that, and discuss what _really_ happened? How about the parking garage when I hit your knee after you bashed Justin's skull in? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Michael's face scrunches up with righteous fury. “IT'S YOUR GODDAMN FAULT! It's always 'Justin this' or 'Justin that'!”

Before he can say anything else, a uniformed officer comes in with Detective Horvath who states, “Michael Novotny? You are under arrest. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law…”

I have already started walking out - it had taken everything in me to stand there as calmly as I had. I can't stand to be in his presence one second longer. I don't even pause and turn around as I hear the distinct clank and click; Michael's arm is most likely being handcuffed to the bed rail.

<><><>

Three months have passed, and a _lot_ has happened. After spending a week in the hospital, Justin is more than ready to go home. Jennifer wanted him to go to her new condo, but Justin voiced his displeasure, and after a glance at me, Jennifer didn't say any more. I jokingly asked Justin if I looked scary.

So, with a promise to come in religiously for his therapy appointments, we pack him up and - against his wishes - he’s wheeled down to the entrance, only to come to a standstill. He can't make himself walk out of the hospital. The hustle of people coming in and out has him frozen to the spot, so ultimately, they wheel him to a more secluded area while I drive the jeep around to pick him up.

It takes two more days for me to locate a therapist who is willing to come to the loft for his treatments. I have to give him credit for his diligence. Daphne stays with him during the day while I work, which also helps keep his spirits up. Two weeks later, and with the trial looming, I implore Justin to go outside to help him readjust to crowds. We start taking walks in the evening, staying close to the loft. Then bribery comes into play. I tell him if he can manage daytime on a busy Liberty Avenue sidewalk, I'll take him out for dinner at a nice restaurant. The little shit quirks an eyebrow at me, saying, “Like a date?” 

All I have to do is tell him, “Sure, but do you remember me telling you the only date I've ever been on, I fucked the waiter? Do you _still_ want to go on a date... or just go out and have a nice dinner at Papagano's?” He chooses to go out to have a nice dinner.

The trial is a nightmare. Deb has already distanced herself from everyone. She doesn't want anything to do with anyone who does not support Michael. She had shown up at my office one day, demanding as Michael's best friend that I hire him a good lawyer. When I told her that I wouldn't do any such thing, and that I felt Michael was getting what he deserved, she lost it. After the slap to my face and ranting about how she spent years - _years_ \- patching me up after my father beat me up, bloodied me, and broke my ribs, she turned to go out. It was then that I noticed my office door wasn't closed, so that kind of clued the office into my childhood, leaving me feeling sick in the pit of my stomach. Cynthia had already called security, who did an admirable job of preventing her from continuing to scream all the way out.

But, back to the trial. David arrives to testify and so does Dr. Cromley... giving testimony regarding what Michael said while in DC. And I am so proud of Justin for getting up on the stand. He speaks with passion, relaying what he can remember; how he woke up after the surgery, and the only thing he could remember from that night was seeing Michael in the parking garage. He speaks of the disabilities he suffers with and how he's not sure if he'll be able to go to PIFA, after being one of the select few to be chosen. But when he looks Michael in the eye and tells him how he has taken from him what should have been the best night of his life, Michael jumps out of his seat, yelling, “That's what you get for dancing at your prom with a guy! Isn't that right, Brian?” He asks as he turns to peer over at me. “If WE had danced together, we'd probably have gotten beaten up and left for dead! I just did what Brian told me years ago! That was supposed to be your last dance, Boy Wonder!” he spits out, venom dripping from his voice. 

Well, Michael pretty much seals his fate with that outburst. He is found guilty and sentenced to eighteen years in prison, plus $60,000 in punitive damages awarded to Justin. When we question the DA afterwards, he relays that many factors go into sentencing for aggravated assault felonies. Michael's almost 'proud' at what he has done; his refusal to take responsibility for the crime and showing no remorse accounted for a large portion of the sentence. But other factors that were considered were Justin's reoccurring injuries. The fact that he was intending to be an artist and had been accepted at a prestigious school like PIFA, had also held a lot of weight in determining the sentence. 

Deb explodes. Her outburst and name-calling towards the judge result in her being held in contempt. I don't think it helps when she tells the judge he'd better sleep with one eye open, either. She is sentenced to only three days' imprisonment. I think the judge realizes that the type of sentence he has handed down to Michael might make any parent momentarily unbalanced. 

I wish I could tell you that it makes her realize she needs to keep her mouth closed and avoid confrontations, but not good old Deb. I hear all the details from quite a few, so there must be some truth in it. 

About two weeks after her release from jail, when Deb is delivering food to one table, one of the guys at the next table says, “Can you believe that psycho? His ass deserved to be fried!”

Deb drops the plates she is still holding, shattering them on the floor. She turns around and marches over to him, hauling off with a resounding crack across his face, her fingernails leaving long scratches across his cheek. She starts screaming about how ‘nobody is going to talk about my Michael like that,’ as if he was so important people would still be talking about him. It turns out the guy's dad had caught his wife in bed with another man and killed them both. They had retired to Florida and the guy was given the death penalty, so, yeah, he was literally going to be fried.

Needless to say, Deb is fired. She has no pension to speak of or money saved, so she signs over the house to Vic and takes off... going south to stay with an old friend. Vic says the two were practically inseparable in school. Loretta Pye, with a 'y'. A brash big mouth, just like Deb. Vic is worried about being able to make the payments with only his pension. Deb owes quite a bit on the house, and Vic worries the bank will repossess it. I have Ted do some pretty fancy stuff with my portfolio, freeing up a hefty sum of money, which I use to make a balloon payment on the house for him, thus lowering his payments drastically. I speak to Emmett, who says he will move in with Vic, thus helping out by paying him rent. 

They are now talking about trying to start a catering company. I think it would be a good move for Vic. He's an excellent chef. He worked in the kitchen of one of the top restaurants in New York for many years. Emmett is a natural party planner, so I can see a booming business being started. His youth and enthusiasm for life should be good for Vic.

<><><>

**EPILOGUE:**

It's been nine months since that fateful night. Justin has deferred starting school for one semester. Oh, they put up a hell of a fight, but that was when Melanie paid the board a visit. They tacked on a penalty for the loss of payment and an empty spot, but Justin doesn't mind. He has the money drawing a high interest rate. After David sends all of Michael's stuff back, and with an okay from the court, Michael's prized possessions are sold off. I contact Heritage Auctions in New York. Justin has no problem receiving his $60,000 from the proceeds. The rest goes towards Michael’s hospital bill. Which is a good thing, as Michael just doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. He's told to move the line forward at the prison commissary, and instead of looking to see who gave the order, he yells at him to go fuck off. 'Tiny' takes offense to that. Michael is involved in an accident shortly thereafter. He ends up losing his bad leg, and the crack on the head inflicted on him leaves him in a vegetative state due to cerebral damage. They figure he won't last much more than six months in his current condition.

Justin is doing extremely well. His determination to not let any handicaps hinder him has aided in his recovery. He's returned to the vibrant youth he used to be, only a little older and a little wiser. Looking at how he views the world has also helped me grow as a person, too. At least I try to tell myself that. We both still occasionally trick, but after what we have gone through, we leave the bed at the loft just for us.

He suffered terrible nightmares when he first came home. One time when I was out of town trying to acquire a new client, I looked up a psychiatrist that specializes in trauma. Yes, Brian Kinney saw a shrink. But hey, it was for Justin. She told me that when Justin is asleep to place earbuds in his ears and play the song from Prom. Who knows... maybe it will even jar a memory? It's a good thing he sleeps like the dead, as I don't think he has ever realized I do that. It's surprising, but the music has calmed him, allowing him better rest and helping in his recovery. Every now and then, I hear the song being hummed softly under his breath. I wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.

Tonight, we're in New York, a celebration of sorts. It's Sunshine's birthday, but better than that, he is one of the three students selected to participate in an Emerging Artist's Show. His art is spectacular. I book reservations at Eleven Madison Park, the restaurant where Vic was a chef years ago. Justin always said he would like to eat there if given the chance.

We are almost done with our dinner, when I excuse myself. Unknown to Justin, I have prearranged a surprise for him tonight. I want this to be special. I want it recreated perfectly. On my way to get myself ready, I nod to the maître d', signaling I’m ready and will be right back.

A few minutes later, I appear behind the waiter who is speaking to Justin. After clearing my throat, the waiter moves and Justin glances at me, surprise evident on his face. There I stand in a replica tux and white silk scarf, just like I wore to the prom. Holding out my hand, I ask, “May I have this dance?”

Justin hesitates, then gives me that smile so reminiscent of prom, and my throat catches. I lead him to a section that has been cleared off just for this special occasion. The first strands of Save the Last Dance for Me start. Justin gives me a surprised look; I figure he thinks the song is old and sappy.

Halfway through, he starts to unbutton my jacket. He pauses and starts kissing my chest before circling around my back, removing my coat. Where he flings it to is anyone's guess. And just like before, I lead him through a series of spins, with him moving effortlessly, before I pull him tightly back into my chest. I grab him around the leg - afraid he might be dizzy - tucking it around me, before lowering him into a dip.

When I pull him up from the dip, I see recognition enter Justin's eyes.

<><><>

**JUSTIN:**

As soon as Brian dips me, scenes start playing in my mind: 

_Brian standing in front of me._

_“I thought you wouldn't be caught dead in a room full of eighteen-year-olds.”_

_“I thought I'd recapture my lost youth.”_

_Unbuttoning his jacket, tossing it to Daphne. Fancy footwork. Spins. A dip._

And when I come up from that dip, I see the sheer love reflected in those hazel eyes that I love so much, just like back then. I realize that Brian had given me a gift that night; he had opened himself up to me. He had allowed me to see what he has shown very few others.

I pause... our lips centimeters from each other, before pulling his head down and giving him a searing kiss.

I touch the white silk scarf Brian placed around my neck before he whirled me around the dance floor and I know that things are going to be better. I remember. And I don't plan on ever losing that memory again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it was ridiculously romantic. I want to share something with all of you readers. Back when one of the cons was held, someone had questioned Gale and Randy about their most memorable scene from the show. Randy talked about the end of season one - the scene in the garage. He said that that iconic moment, when he turns his head as Brian calls his name, was not in the original scene. They had already told him he was wrapped - and he was halfway through a bottle of champagne - when they called him back in to film that moment. (Note the picture on my banner.) That moment, when he turns (before the crack of the bat). That bright happy smile and flushed cheeks? Yep... Champagne. 😊
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I hope you all have truly enjoyed this story and its ending as much as I have. I welcome any kind of feedback (but hopefully, it’s good, duh) and I'll still love you no matter what you say.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING. COMMENTS ARE LOVE.


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